


Cut to the Feeling

by Hazel_Inle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description, Hand Jobs, I Ship It, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot With Porn, Points of View, Sex, Sexual Content, War, almost completely written, just needs edits, this has been a WIP since last january
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-03-25 11:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13833501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel_Inle/pseuds/Hazel_Inle
Summary: Garazeb would remember him.Kallus. Agent Kallus. ISB-021.And he would crush him.Kallus wouldn't forget- couldn't forget - the survivor.Garazeb Orrelios. Former Captain of the Honor Guard. "Zeb," the muscle of the rebel cell.So he will end this misery.





	1. I Had a Dream

Garazeb

 

It’s a general consensus among beings that humans were a rather strange species of sentient. Not that they were strange in comparison to beings in general, since a lot of sentients were bipedal, or at least upright, and upheld norms of their own unique society just as any culture does. But…

Humans were…well, odd.

They focused on the physical as well as the ethereal. They were expected to do both at the same time, without getting mixed up in opinions. And did they have a surplus of _that_ particular resource... So much so, they could be argued as a contradiction to themselves. This was probably why they constantly quarreled amongst their kin so much, as well as with other beings.

Well, no species were immune to arguing, but humans especially seemed ready to “jump the blaster”. Which made it all the more perplexing when considering the fact that humans were _social_ creatures, as biologists say.

If mentally they were strange, then physically they were outright _inconceivable_. Humans could live and _thrive_ in almost any biome, so long as there was an oxygen supply, an H20 source, and basic sustenance. However, if they were thrown into such a place that didn’t have one of the three, guaranteed they would most likely adapt in a couple weeks. It was a joke amongst other species that if humans dropped on a planet, you’d never get rid of them.  They’d be stable in a couple weeks, and colonized by a year.

Appearance wise, they were basic enough. Bipedal beings with similar proportions of many other species in the galaxy, though perhaps more reliant on their material creations for survival rather than primal instinct. They were fragile in that sense. Coddled by their own invention.

 _Again_ with the double standards on a naturalist standpoint; they survive anything with their adaptability, but physically they were weakly made. Mostly hairless except for their head, face, underarms, and privates (which was discovered mostly through intimate means).

Garazeb Orrelios never had much experience with Humans on Lasan; he never had the need to. The only time he ever had to concern himself with their needs was when dignitaries from the Republic, then later Imperial Senate came to visit the Royal Family. His job as captain of the guardsmen was to ensure that his soldiers protected both the royal house _and_ their guests. It would not do well for people to be harmed or wronged while being hosted, though not for any of the Lasats’ state of mind.

As said before: humans were more likely to jump the blaster.

Their pride was easily wounded, but rarely breakable. Rather than admit wrong, they’d do dishonorable things to either cover the issue, or outright demand others to take responsibility of their own transgressions, ergo shoving the blame away.

It was safe to assume that Garazeb didn’t quite _like_ humans.

Fortunately, his experience with them was minimum, and all was well for a time.

His focus could be dealt among more domestic matters, such as making house calls to friends and relatives, siring with several assigned Birthing Mates, and keeping one eye open for a potential Life Mate. He trained new recruits and ranked the more experienced guards, escorted the family to destinations and events, and maintained the order and honor that the Guard was so famous for.

All this remained true until the fall.

Suddenly humans were everywhere, and with a murderous intent worse than any enemy Garazeb ever had to face. He was more than aware of how volatile they were when they were overcome with what they called “righteous fury,” especially when given weapons. Garazeb was a soldier; he had to understand that.

It was said by some that he was a “punch first, ask questions later” sort of guy, but often that was used as a joke among friends or a light tease by potential mates. But there was a difference between protective instinct and outright murder. That was consolation enough for him most nights, when the nightmarish memories haunted behind his eyes in the early days filled with wanderlust, after The Fall.

 _Mostly_.

His pseudo family of the Ghost crew had helped him through that insecurity. Not that it was an open conversation by any means; Garazeb was a private and prideful being after all. Rather, it was an unspoken curriculum of _example_ , after _example_ of how Zeb could still be himself without becoming the Empire.

It was disconcerting how Zeb was identified as the muscle of the group more than strategic, which made him much like the disrupters that killed Lasan, in his own mind. But Kanan proclaimed that while the weapon doesn’t have any qualms against who it harms, the wielder does, and that’s what mattered in the end. Sounded like that Jedi poodoo stuff at first, but it did make sense. It’s not the weapon that’s evil; it’s the person.

But that didn’t stop the shock and the pain from discovering the prototype of the disrupters on a mission. One look and suddenly he was smelling smoke and burning flesh, hearing screams of terror and explosions all around, tasting the ash and ozone of Lasan in the throes of death.

He wanted the weapons destroyed immediately. They had no place with anyone, no matter the wielder. Imperial hands or not, he didn’t want anyone to suffer as his people had. The others seemed to be more satisfied with the weapons no longer off to their original destination of an imperial factory. Most were more focused on the money that came with the job. Zeb agreed he _did_ like the feeling of a full stomach and the prospect of a full tank of fuel, but he _didn’t_ like the ends to those means.

He honestly didn’t think the mission could be any worse until that stupidly talkative protocol droid called the imperials for help, leading them right to their drop off point, and catalyzing the beginning of the most complicated and impractical relationships Zeb couldn’t even begin to fathom.

He came in a fury, striding over his dead comrades, calling him by his species and pointing a proudly gloved finger at him with an illustrious confidence that already made Zeb’s hair stand on end. The extension of this human’s weapon hurt Zeb more than any blow could have felt; a High Honor Guardsman J-19 Bo-Rifle. The weapon of Zeb’s people, his own crudely wrapped weapon in comparison clutched in his hands so tightly his claws dug into the metal.

The fight was full of taunting, vicious blows that hurt mentally as well as physically. Zeb’s heart couldn’t take the jeering pride of the human agent, and fell to his knees with his weakened fortitude. The only thing that saved him was the new kid’s Jedi powers, much to Zeb’s chagrin. He was not joking when he asked for death upon hearing of his rescuer’s identity, and was proven to be correct in his dread: the little slimo would never shut up about that day, something that Zeb would give anything to forget.

Unaware to the rest of the crew, he wanted to forget that day not because Ezra kept pointing out his Jedi gallantry, but because of the circumstances.

Kallus. Agent Kallus. ISB-021.

He would remember him. And he would crush him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hi on Tumblr! :D


	2. Or Was It Real?

Kallus

 

Smoke. Ash. Flames. Burning oil and plasma. Melted steel. Disintegrated dirt.

It all was the same. Except for the one scent. He knew he wasn’t the most sensitive to smells, as of he was human, but it was still putrid.

The smell of Lasat death.

Charred skin, burnt hair, fermenting carcasses, pouring blood, electrified flesh, it all was different to dying humans.

It was metallic, a coppery taste in his mouth; the sourness of rotten limes drenched in spoiled blue milk. Browning or in some cases blackening blood in pools, sprayed across walls, dripping down stairs, bubbling crimson from wounds before hardening and flaking like lead paint.

The Empire was the galaxy’s revitalization.

Stability, order, gargantuan, _powerful_. His words echoed the propaganda posters, yes, but there was no denying the truth of them. He hesitated to even consider it _propaganda_ if it was true.

Stable, because there were protective forces to ensure the law was binding to the people governed, no matter the distance. Order, because there was a place for everything, and everything had a place; even people were sorted for careers and opportunities that best suited their talents. Gargantuan because the borders of the empire were the borders of the known regions; there was no other governing force that could be compared to the empire’s numbers and magnitude.

Powerful because of _everything_. The pride, the military, the government, the education, the determination, the order applied to civilizations of all sorts under Imperial rule; it was pure unadulterated supremacy.

But, the Empire was also a hierarchy. A mountain to climb. A race to the finish line. A battle for victory.

And these creatures…had failed in this battle for victory.

_So why was there no satisfaction?_

Where was the glory, the pride, the sense of accomplishment? Where was his virtuous wrath; his boundless confidence in his mission, that what he had done was _right_? His passion for the empire was as strong as it ever was, but his own actions?

Why was there this sense of doubt as he carried the bodies of men women and children to the burn pile, wiping the blood and charred blackness from his hands as they were lit.

_The disruptors._

His eye trailed to the villain in all this, the weapon that had massacred all life on this once bright and thriving world. They were put away in cases and racks by the various outposts and checkpoints, guarded by troopers with the strict orders to ensure their protection.

Protection for the guilty. What an interesting concept. Kallus supposed he should count his lucky stars that there was no protection for traitors like the Lasat Mercenary. If he were actually on Lasan…

Ah that’s what it was; the inability to define the differences between the past of his first unit and the present of the Lasat people. Had he done this in personal gain? For revenge, rather than the justice for the empire? Had he allowed his personal judgement to guide his actions rather than for the betterment of the empire’s order? The weapons were not his decision, yet he held an opportunity to use a better, less devastating weapon to do the mission justice.

_“Quickly eliminate the insurgence and use the dead as an example.”_

Logical on paper, nauseating in practice.

As Kallus lugged yet another body in the rising pile of cadavers along with the troopers, he had a sudden feeling of oddly placed nostalgia; his academy days were long and strict in their routine, but it was also brutally savage in politics. If one couldn’t play the game of physical prowess and the political one, they ended up tossed aside, just like these dead Lasat.

There was safety in numbers, however. Allies were needed, and so Kallus made himself a part of his troops, gladly working alongside the lesser ranked to earn respect and thus loyalty. This was why his first unit was so tightly knit to him; they were loyal to him almost as much as clone troopers were to their brothers.

Which made losing them all the more painful. From then on, Kallus knew he had to change. Be hard, ruthless. A stoic face of a distant leader, instead of getting close to his men. Troopers were killed often and were a dime a dozen if he didn’t get to know them. Easier to take losses, in that way. He would tell himself he didn’t care, and eventually found that he didn’t.

Here and now, piling the bodies up, Kallus still didn’t care. He didn’t take pity on their tired selves of disgusting cleanup; he just wanted off this rock before he had a mental breakdown. Too much tugged at his memory of the pain _that_ Lasat gave him. Now the earth sang from its suffering, along with the horrified and disfigured faces of the victims he had killed along with his troops.

His own comlink chimed a little too cheerily to Kallus’ taste, but he answered anyways.

 _“Report back to the_ Interrogator _for a debriefing. All ISB are to be transferred from this Commission.”_

Commission? Ah yes…this was a job no more than for mercenaries. It made the setting all more gruesome, and Kallus was more than happy to follow orders and abandon his troops to cleanup. But there was one last order of business that he needed to tend to.

The Architecture of the palace was as beautiful as it was natural. Well, it would have been if it wasn’t razed to the ground by airstrike and artillery. Kallus had seen pictures and could see some of the familiar facets of the walls from his research, but anything taller than him was no more. Kallus told himself he was glad for it. Seeing anything that resembled the pictures too much would have been a burden. Now it was easy. Easy to pass through the grand entryway, through the waiting area, and finally the great hall. That was where his foe lay; the one Lasat that didn’t run from him.

In the heat of the moment, he had thought it was _that_ Lasat, but it was a mere fantasy. _That_ Lasat would not have returned to defend its people; it was too busy murdering boys just out of the academy. It had no heart, no soul, no mercy. It is an _it_. Not a who. It didn’t deserve that.

This one, however, was different. He fought well. No foul play, or cheats; he fought fairly, and with – dare Kallus admit this – honor. Kallus contemplated whether he returned the favor and decided it did not matter; he won, the Lasat is dead, and the Empire had a victory.

But the victory felt hollow over this once mighty beast that lay across the steps in a heap, his fingers still wrapped around his weapon. The weapon…that the lasat had given him.

“take it…” he had coughed out in his dying moments. “Take…it…”

Kallus could not bring himself to move. Why? What was the reason? Was there a trap? A bomb inside? Gas cannister? What reason did this old master give him the most prized of Lasat weapons away to a foe?

Kallus had let him die still offering the rifle and moved on from that stage of battle. Now, with a head not buzzing from adrenaline and rage, he could calmly take the weapon and hold it in his hands. He could study it, before leaving it behind. He could take it apart, make sure it was not booby trapped. He could take a few practice stances and…

He couldn’t leave it. Holding it in his hands, his mind racing around the piece of art, thinking of improvements, tactics, and even ease of comfort not normally found in dangerous objects…this was not a weapon; it was a guiding tool to peace. He didn’t know how it was or why, but there was some sort of sacred aura around the Bo-Rifle that he could not explain. It felt disrespectful to leave it.

It wasn’t a burdon to take it. No, he could pass it off as a trophy to his peers. They did it on every mission. Although Kallus had hoped to claim the head of his oppressor instead, this rifle made it seem too… _barbaric_ to be human.

Kallus shouldered the weapon easily enough and left the sanctuary of the once grand palace, returning to the Empire.

The Bo-Rifle was easy enough to reconstruct. With access to the plethora of parts on the Holonet, refining and tuning to his particular tastes became his preferred pastime. Soon, once it was complete, he sought to master the weapon. With the Empire’s strict fighting style, it became clear that the rifle had no place in his normal training regimen. Regardless, he was not one to let that stop him becoming worthy of the tool given to him from death.

* * *

The word of a new Lasat was one of untimeliness. Kallus did not welcome the new information about the rebel cell, but that did not mean he could not reign in his determination.

The reporter of this cell, Minister Tua, was not of the military. She was, in all fairness, a civilian. A politician, but also a civilian. Governor Pryce was more likely to understand what it meant that there was a Lasat in a rebel cell. The Lasat were all but gone, and the few survivors wouldn’t dare oppose now. Not after the devastation. So Tua’s shock was misplaced that one survived. A few _had_ survived. But only one was _stupid_ enough to cause trouble.

A day and a night upon reflection, and the inclusion of the discovery of the Jedi made it more bearable to swallow. The jedi should maintain his attention. The Empire was more focused on the traitorous recluse. He reported the Lightsaber wielding individual to the inquisitor shortly after his first run in. He was pleased with the information, but the chilling smile was enough to make Kallus’s hair stand on end.

Upon the return to his quarters, and with the sight of the unused rifle, the thoughts of the rogue Lasat returned. He was strongly built for their species, boldly colored with masculine stripes, and fierce in battle. But the most important clue of his identity was the facial hair; a sign of respect and high standing in Lasat culture. He was not the mercenary.

Garazeb Orrelios…

 

 

 


	3. We Crossed the Line

Garazeb 

Lasan was not a cold planet. It was a temperate climate with rich forests, thriving life, and plenty for all. Zeb supposed he could not call it a paradise, but it was a sanctuary. Lira San was the supposed paradise. Not that he cared: Zeb wasn’t a spiritual sort, even with the likes of Chava smacking him with her staff when he would silently judge her rituals and prayers.

Now with Lasan gone, Zeb was potently aware of how lost they were supposed to feel without the legendary Lira San. He belonged nowhere, cast out from the near extinction of his people. Well, perhaps he was exaggerating. His family among _The Ghost_ crew made him feel that camaraderie, once so natural among his kind.

But when Chava reappeared with one of his past soldiers, both preaching the stories and legends of the Child, the Fool, and the Warrior, he could not stop his long time buried frustration from bursting forth.

The Child the Fool and the Warrior…what a combination of _junk_. He was always a nonbeliever, preferring what he could see and touch in front of him. This of course left very little understanding of the Force, but after the years with Kanan, it became clear it was best just to accept faith for what it was. After all, faith was close to hope. But _his_ faith stayed in the realm of what was provable and tactile.

And of course, the kid didn’t understand. He was a bloody Jedi. His whole life was now spiritual, so the lack of such a thing probably seemed inconceivable to Ezra. Plus, his inexperience meant he didn’t understand the feeling of having his mistakes thrusted upon him in one swift blow, and then having a mockery shortly afterwards, even if the actions of his people were truly an attempt of normalcy. But…there was a point he could not deny; if there was ever a time to heal, it was now, among his people.

When he was to lead the way to Lira San, the pilgrimage became tense, forced, and tried at Zeb’s tolerance.

Kallus the Warrior, led by the Fool in Hondo, had followed them to the edge, and would have been upon them if they hadn’t had the help of the blasted Force or Chava’s Ashla. How _fitting_. Leaving the Warrior behind, they awoke to the most beautiful sight of an untouched world overflowing with life.

That moment was but a memory in the frozen underground that he and the kriffing Imperial had broken through in the crash.

Why, _why_ was his luck this horrible? To be trapped on a frozen moon with the one and only Agent Kallus?

The anxiety, the fear, the sadness, and the hatred had a cause, a scapegoat, a face, a name. He could now turn all his sick feelings of his past and place the blame on the man who slaughtered his first family that was his world and hunted ravenously his current pseudo family. It would be too easy to snap him, end the miserable excuse that was the so-called Warrior. Garazeb was even shocked at how easy the thought of killing Kallus came to him.

But Zeb was even more shocked at his own preference of a fair fight. Not that Zeb usually fought dirty; rather it was that he willingly would give his enemy the benefit of a fair conclusion when his opponent would be more than willing to kill him off if the roles were switched.

Kallus had a broken leg and could hardly move without making a noise of pain. But his actions were anything but docile. He was a cornered animal, snapping and jeering at any moment of given opportunity. Zeb had to admit, it was fun poking the downed human. Kallus made it so easy for Zeb to rile him up. It took off the edge of wanting to tear Kallus’ hairy face off.

As Zeb fixed the transponder, he denoted a change in Kallus’ demeanor. It appeared less tense and aggressive to Zeb’s movements. He didn’t watch every move Zeb made, keeping his actions to checking his leg, or warming his hands in the generator.

Zeb could suppose it was from pointing a weapon at Kallus’ head while he scrambled to get away, but the desperation to have some sort of equalizer in their situation overtook Kallus’s every action; he was scared by something. Something that he obviously was not used to dealing with.

Was it being unarmed? Unlikely, since imperials were trained with both weapon and hand to hand combat. With Agent Kallus being ISB, it was clear he had more than enough basic training and had been given the benefit of a more advanced combat style.

Was it being injured or helpless? No, Kallus was a fighter. He was in the thick of battle among troops, not one of the typical officers that never took one step off the bridge of a star destroyer. He knew war as any veteran did and bore the vacant stare that denoted a scarred spirit.

No. Agent Kallus was terrified of _Zeb._ A Lasat. He fully expected Zeb to kill him in cold blood. There were ghosts in his eyes as he cried out his protests from being dragged out of the pod, and the demons flashed powerfully like strobe lights in a dark room. Zeb had seen them and wondered why.

He shouldn’t have cared. He should have left it alone, never asked for more. He should have let him freeze. But no, he gave Kallus the blasted meteorite, even as Zeb felt the cold begin to bite his thick leathery toes. He insisted on arguing that his friends _would_ come, even when it wouldn’t make a difference if Kallus believed this simple truth or not. His perpetual negativity ebbed on the line of bleakness.

“The Transponder’s signal will never get though the ice.”

That was true. But it was a simple process of getting the transponder _out_ of the ice. Climb to the top and place on the surface: simple.

In theory.

The first fall was unsurprising, since it was ice Zeb was climbing and not a tree. Still, the impact hurt, and knocked the wind out of his chest as he landed gracelessly.

“You’re going to hurt yourself!” the damned Imperial called from where he was slumped, most likely thinking it awful if Zeb couldn’t do the dirty work anymore and therefore sealing his fate. That earned a growled reply, but a second attempt was made. _Despite_ the warning.

The second fall was bruising, but he made it farther than the last time. Regardless of this accomplishment, Agent Kallus had the _audacity_ to _laugh_ at his pain.

“How would you like a few more broken bones?” Zeb growled his threat, and meant it too, had there not been a giant hungry creature behind him. Suddenly the distant roars were a very present problem. Procrastination was now over, if the horrible breath and spray of saliva from the exaggerated scream in his face was anything to go by. 

Zeb had fought foes of species unknown to him before, but they were rarely bigger than him. This one, whatever it was, towered over him on all four of its thick-skinned legs. The jaws and head plate were massive, and _tough._ Even when he tried to shoot through the armor, nothing phased it. It just kept snapping its head at him, and eventually chased him into the escape pod, where Kallus was strangely absent from.

Barely a few seconds later, he discovered where Kallus went.

The damned imperial was on his _feet_ and _fighting_. With a broken leg, he was confidently limping around with a perfect aim of the kriffing stolen weapon of the Lasat Honor Guard. Shot after shot found its mark upon the creature’s back and face, garnering its attention away from Zeb and towards this new warrior.

Zeb didn’t think of the implications of these actions, leaping in to aid the crusade. Together, for once aiming at a shared enemy, they warded off the mystery oppressor back into the darkness, allowing their adrenaline to calm enough for conversation.

“Karabast! What was that thing?”

“Don’t know,” Kallus conceded. “But it’s probably going to come back.”

“Yeah,” Zeb muttered in agreement. “And it’s probably going to bring its friends.”

Zeb watched as Kallus followed him back to the pod, their makeshift camp. He limped rather clumsily now and panted as though it suddenly pained him.

“That is the order of things. The strong survive…” Kallus dropped to his original seat with a thump. “The weak perish.”

“Is that what happened on Geonosis? The weak _needed_ to perish?”

Zeb didn’t exactly think as he jabbed at Kallus’s logic. If he had, he would have perhaps been more aware how personal the Geonosian’s disappearance was to him and his past. Should he have stopped to consider, he would have known that the comment was an underlying question about the death of his own people.

If Kallus caught on to such sentiments, he did not show it. Instead, he merely treated the thought of the empire destroying a population as a pointless exercise. Zeb almost couldn’t believe that the imperial was this thick.

“Chase the answers and maybe you’ll learn the _truth._ ”

Garazeb watched Kallus’ micro-expressions change with interest, knowing them to be as important to define human emotion as it was to watch Lasat ear position for mood. Kallus _seemed_ to consider the thought, but quickly was distracted by another obstacle, and changed the subject.

“You know, you’ll never get out of here without my help.”

Zeb rolled his eyes with a scoff.

“You’re in no shape to help anyone,” he countered, highlighting this fact by shoving the medical kit roughly to the human’s chest.

Kallus didn’t even hesitate in his bored but stubborn reply of, “I can tell you _exactly_ how to climb out of here.”

Zeb considered the possibility. He would prefer to keep this wretch out of his way as much as possible. Kallus was an annoyance at best, and his absolute enemy at the worst. However, irritating or not, he was a survivor, and he appeared determined to be of use. Why he would want to be of use to him, Zeb, a rebel, made no sense. Regardless, that was not something to overlook.

Zeb didn’t want to admit it but allowing help from Kallus was the best possible tactic to be rescued alive and in one piece. And it would double their chances of survival in the frozen wasteland. And falling from the ceiling a third time did _not_ appeal to the Lasat.

“Alright, we’ll work together.”


	4. And It Was On This Time

Kallus

 

Kallus could recall his entire life in a few seconds. If he was asked to, it would be a simple pandering off his personal favorite collection of memories, and maybe mentioning a moment or two of difficulty. People pontificate that when your life flashes before your eyes, it’s an expression that is for once literal, though perhaps impossible when truly considered.

It was no surprise to any Imperial in combat that at some time or another the experience would come not if, but when. Kallus, a well prepared and bred man of combat was no exception to this expectation and was fulfilled in quick succession of his first real combat. He was one of the lucky ones that fate had allowed to live in his second of relapse. His compatriot nearest to him was not. To spare future moments of grief, he had purposefully forgotten this.

In the cold, one leg down, weaponless, and with the fully armed and dangerous Lasat he had been chasing for over a year, Kallus couldn’t help in those few seconds in which he saw his mortality to say a prayer for his survival.

Once again, he was blessed with a listening ear, because he saw the rising sun once more. But not before wondering why he ever feared Garazeb Orrelios to be the murdering sadist he encountered so long ago.

But first, he had to go through an emotional roller coaster.

“I see you modified it for close quarters fighting. Impressive,” Garazeb allowed. “But _you shouldn’t have it._ It’s _not_ a _trophy_.”

The growl in his voice was back, but only for an instant. Garazeb was surprisingly deft and no less gentle with Kallus’s leg as he himself would be. Kallus counted the terse contact as necessary, though he could have bound his injury on his own. He made no comment on that matter, regardless.

“I didn’t _take it_ as a _trophy,_ ” he found himself defending.

At the disbelieving look, Kallus explained, though unsure _why._ Garazeb couldn’t…well perhaps he could understand. But to ask an enemy to feel empathy for oneself was sentimental and suicidal. ISB even trained him to never disclose any detail of past missions or failures to anyone outside ISB ranking, in case of feeding the public a doubtful opinion of the branch. But here and now, giving his feelings and allowing such weakness bordered on the insane; he was arming Garazeb with weapons the more he disclosed.

But Garazeb, this Lasat, spoke with only with frankness; no cruelty. The shock in Kallus was enough to be obvious on his face, and he sought only to change the subject when he offered to carry Garazeb’s Bo-rifle. The Lasat, however, made it clear he was not so trusting with one fierce toss. The transponder and meteorite followed soon after. Kallus refused to think himself as a pouter.

“We’ll get it when we reach the top,” Garazeb said. “time to go.”

Kallus was thankful for his tall physique as he climbed onto Garazeb’s back. It was then he discovered Lasat fur was not exactly soft. It was rougher, wiry. Like a shorthair Loth-cat that hadn’t bathed in a while.  Or a recently buzz cut hair of a trooper. Kallus always thought it was smoother.

“Hold it!” he stopped his carrier. “Don’t climb the _walls_. Go _up_ the _pillars_.”  Garazeb started at this instruction.

“What!? Pillars would never hold my weight. Never mind _yours!”_

 _“they hold up this_ cave _, don’t they?”_ Kallus snapped back. The creature’s closer roar replied and settled the matter, but not without the threat from Garazeb to be fed to it if he was wrong.

The journey started easily enough. Garazeb was a talented climber, Kallus could easily admit. The Lasat were species that were built for climbing and scaling steep inclines, for they lived on mountainous areas and grand forests. Ice, however, was a tad trickier.

It all went to hell the second two of the creatures appeared, as Garazeb predicted.

“Karabast…”

“Karabast, _Karabast_ , what does that even _MEAN!?”_ Kallus cried.

“Right _now_ , it means you’re a _lot_ heavier than you look!” the Lasat bit back as he tried climbing the ceiling.

This was where Kallus knew the error in his plan was. The pillars did not reach the hole itself. And so, he was stuck holding onto Garazeb’s waist with his arms, which proved impossible for his grip. But right as he was sure to fall into the awaiting hungry jaws of their tormentors. He was caught by his bad leg by the Lasat’s prehensile feet. Kallus would not deny that it hurt, but it was preferential to being eaten.

“hold still!” Garazeb called. “and hope this works…”

“HOPE!? HOPE _WHAT_ WORKS!?” Kallus screamed from below, hanging upside down.

With an adjustment, and a fierce swing, Kallus flipped out of Garazeb’s grip and stuck to the cavern’s ceiling by the accidentally deployed pike in his own weapon/splint. He could hear that damned rebel laughing at his position. But like the grip from his injured leg, hanging from the ceiling was not much better. In fact, it was steadily getting worse, as he started sliding down from the force of gravity.

He was sure his life was over, had he not been caught. Later, when he considered the situation in solitude, he recalled the way he was held and what it suggested about their relationship. He was glad it was only themselves on the planet.

One last throw and he was among the winds, ice, and snow. However, not too far away was Garazeb’s rifle. After fixing his own weapon so he could stand, he was able to rise and take hold of the rifle, only to face Garazeb hanging onto the edge of the cavern’s opening.

 _‘Shoot him,_ ’ his inner voice whispered. ‘ _He is your enemy. A rebel. You have the transponder, a weapon, and warmth. You don’t need him anymore.’_

“Karabast…” Garazeb muttered.

Kallus shot. The predator fell at last.

It was a lot colder on the surface than it was in the cave. They had to hurry to find shelter. This luckily was done within a few minutes. It was not as helpful as the cave, but at least there were not any hungry beasts around to snack on them. Kallus considered this a blessing, even if he was with a rebel.

But this rebel has saved his life. Had been protecting him. Would Kallus have done the same for him if the roles were switched? If it was Garazeb who had been injured, and not he? Kallus took himself away from that thinking.

_“Chase the answers. Maybe you’ll learn the truth,” he had said. How long had Garazeb been looking for answers to his people’s death? How could it be justified?_

“On Lasan…” Kallus started; Green eyes met his. “it…it wasn’t supposed to be a massacre. But I realized that the empire wanted to make an example. I know at the time I took credit…” Kallus tried to find the courage to continue. What good would it do to say he lied on their first meeting? Claiming he had authorized the use of such cruel weapons? He said they could be used but did not recommend it. It just…happened.

Garazeb rescued him by speaking. “What happened on Lasan, it’s over for me. I’ve moved on.” A pause. “By the way, its Zeb. My name. It’s Zeb.”

 “Short for Garazeb.” Kallus smiled. “I know.”

Somehow, he felt that the words “I know,” meant more than simply acknowledging a fact. He was not quite sure how, but it was there none the less. A feeling of warmth that was not felt physically. A feeling that was long forgotten.

A feeling that was felt for an instant when he awoke leaning against Zeb the next morning. Before he elbowed the man in the side to get him away. Or push that warm fuzzy feeling aside. Whichever one.

Zeb had the audacity to say he would be treated fairly. Kallus didn’t think he wanted to risk anything with the unknown. The rebels were chaotic, hardly ever had a solid plan, and were not very organized. What was more, they were emotional; what was to stop any of them from killing him?

“I’ll take my chances with the Empire, Zeb.”

Instead of attempting to convince him otherwise, Garazeb bowed with his hands in a fist in front of him. Kallus did not know the meaning behind it, but it was obviously respectful. As a result, he returned the gesture, and was left to only wonder at its meaning as Zeb was reunited with his friends, greeted with relief, and welcomed back with open arms.

Kallus knew he had made a mistake the second they exited the atmosphere.

 


End file.
